The daily morning Astorian. [volume] (Astoria, Oregon) 1883-1899, 1887-11-20
THE AUTHOR OF ONE POEM.

There died at Bath, Steuben county, y.
Y, last month, at the age of fifty eight, a
man who wrote one celebrated poem. and,
as far as the public know, never did any
thing else that was remarkable. His
death has not attracted as much notice
in the press as would that of a second
class variety show actress. Indeed, the
first mention We have seen of II Is not in
a newspaper, but in the New York Critic.
a literary journal, which copies an article
on the subject from the local Bath paper.
The man was Judge G.. Ii. McMastcr, and
his one poem, doubtless familiar To many
readers of The AsToRIAS. since it is in
cluded in many of the current collections
of verse, is as f,llows:
CARMEN BELLIcosUM.
In their ragged regimenta!s
Stood the old Continentals.
Yielding not,
While the grenadiers were lunging
And like hail fell the plUnging
Cannon-shot;
When the files
OF the isles,
From the smoky night encampment, bore
the banner of the rampant
Unicorn;
And grdmmer, grummer, grummer, rolled
the roll OF the drummer,
Through the morn.
Then with eyes to the front. al,
And with guns horizontal,
Stood our sires;
While the balls whistled deadly,
And in streams flashing redly
Blazed the fires;
As the roar
On the shore
Swept the strong battle-breaEers o'ec the
green sodded acres
Of the plain;
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the
black gunpowder.
Cracking amain!
Now like the smiths at their foTges
Worked the red st. Georges
Cannoneers;
And the villainous Saltpetar
Rang a fierce, discordant meter
Round our ears;
As the swift
Storm-drift,
With hot sweeping anger, came the horse
guards clangor
On our flanks.
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the
old-fashioned fire
Through the ranks,
Then the bare-headed Colonel
Galloped through the white Internal
Powder-cioud:
And his broadsword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing
Trumpet-loud;
Then the blue
Bullets flew,
And the trooper-jackets relden at the
touch of the leaden
Rihe-breath;
And rounder, rounder, ronndeF, roars the
iron 6-pounder,
Hurting DEATH
OF this poem Edmund Clarence Sted-
man wrote in The GALAXY Magazine,
MANY wears ago: There is nothing like
it in our language, tits the ringing, char
acteristic utterance of an original man.
There is a perfect wedding Of sense 10
sound, and of both TO the spirit of the
theme. To include picture often ruins
song; but here We have the knot OF
patriots clustered upon battle-hillside
the powder cracking amain, the old-fash-
ioned Colonel galloping with drawn
sword, and as
Rounder, rounder, rounder, rcars the iron
6-pounder,
Hurting death,
1t seems a heavier piece of ordnance, and
charged with weightier issues than the
whole park of artillery in a modern arma.
ment. This song will last with the mem
ory of revolutionary days." 1t was writ
ten when the author was but twenty years
old, and first appeared in the KnickeT-
booker Magazine for February, 1919, un-
der the signature John MacGrom.' y
McMaster became lawyer, and at one
time was County Judge of Steuber
county. 1t is strange that a man who al
twenty was capable of writing poem SC
original and striking that it was at once
recognized as a masterpiece should have
never made further venture in litera.
ture